Hopeless Tomorrow
by Nakimochiku
Summary: November, 1914. Francis and Arthur share a moment in the trenches. Oneshot.


Hopeless Tomorrow

In the pitch black of the frosted November night, there was nothing to see. Just black. A strip of black sky, turned silvery grey as mortars and shells streaked past. Blacks walls of earth. Black clouds in that black, sometimes silver sky. Black shadows at other ends of the trenches, singing sometimes to stay cheerful. But black none the less. They huddled together in their dug outs against the cold, frost crackling and falling from their coats as they moved.

"Damn Rats got at my bread again." Arthur grumbled, resting his cheek against Francis's soft golden hair, his head warm against his face. There was nothing to see behind his eyelids but black. Fingers that felt brittle from the cold, from being gripped too tight around the barrel of a rifle, carded through the fine silken gold, marvelling at the softness. Francis's only response to his complaint was a soft chuckle, snuggling deeper into the german greatcoat he had stolen from the body of a soldier he killed sometime during the day. He paid the bloody hole in front no mind, choosing instead to stare at the strip of black sky.

"It's cold." Arthur whispered, but means of conversation, silent for a moment to listen to the boys singing down at the other end of the trench. He picked at the light fried pancakes Francis had made them for dinner, the warmth of the food long leeched away by the damp winter chill. He remembered fondly the bread pudding Francis had made before, and wondered if Francis cooked their meals to feel normal. If when Francis was cooking, he didn't think about the war.

Maybe he imagined they were at home? Maybe he dreamt of cooking in his own kitchen, when the war was over?

Arthur finished his pancake, rubbing his hands together and puffing warm breaths on them, scowling at the bemused expression Francis gave him. The one that he made just before he was about to laugh. "Don't smirk at me when you're wearing a stolen coat!" He wasn't angry. But getting flustered and bothered kept them both warm. Getting annoyed and loud helped them forget. And they were both very good at forgetting.

Francis laughed, taking a small piece of dried fruit from Arthur's mess tin to eat as he shrugged out of his greatcoat to put it around both of their shoulders, the near frozen dew cracking and falling away. The wool was warmed from Francis's own body. Smelled faintly of dirt and blood and a dead man they would never know. They fell into silence again. The black of the sky. The black of the trench walls. The black of the very air. In the cold damp of November, trying to stay warm in a field of ice slick mud, Arthur couldn't help but feel bitter.

"Over by Christmas?" He asked sourly, nibbling on a dried fruit, pushing another into Francis's mouth, watching him chew and mull over the word, eyes flashing like a cat's in the dark, dark blue and intelligent. Infuriatingly unaffected. He laughed bitterly, feeling the utter black sink into him. "Over by Christmas…."

"Faith, Petit Lapin." Francis murmured, pressing a kiss to Arthur temple, lips cold and dry. A sign of affection? A gesture of strong will, or bravery, or encouragement? In the black of the trench, miserable and cold and craving that comfort, Arthur didn't know or care. Just leaned into the touch and sighed softly as Francis pressed more kisses against his face. "You must keep your faith."

"You've said that before." He groused, feeling that the last of his faith had been leeched out somewhere in the eternal black. And he didn't hope to find it. Instead, he rifled through his pockets for a matchbook and a cigarette, unsure if he smoked because it was a habit or if it was a habit because he smoked, striking the match against the cardboard to light the cigarette behind his hand. "If I recall, it was a lie then too."

"Share." Francis said softly, ignoring Arthur's growls of irritation, prodding him in the side, mouth thinned into an expressive line of yearning. Where smoking concerned Francis, it was both habit and hobby. And vice. Where smoking concerned Francis, he smoked because he needed it, and for no simpler reason than that.

"Haven't got another." He stared at nothing while Francis shifted beside him. Listening to the black rats crawl about in the black mud and munching on black bread and black corpses in the utter and absolute blackness of no man's land. It terrified him. It sickened him. But he couldn't help but think about it. Couldn't help but torment himself over the fear.

Suddenly, Francis was intimately close. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to smell gunpowder and dirt and his constant underlying scent of flowers. He pressed a pale white cigarette held between his lips against the end of Arthur's own, smoke and fog streaming from their mouths, warming the air between them in a way Arthur couldn't help but savour. The end flared red, and Francis breathed deep, releasing it as a sigh of relief that smelt faintly of hickory smoke rather than tobacco.

"I thought you said you were out." he asked curiously, resting his head back against Francis's hair, the other's weight heavy and comfortable on his shoulder, warm and content despite their location. Despite their situation. The black encroached. And he had no way of fending it off.

"Stole this from the German too." In the dark, in the blackness, Arthur knew Francis was grinning, a mischievous little curve of his lips that claimed false innocence. Arthur snorted, wanted to kiss the smirk away. Wanted to have the other as close as before. Wanted to smell him over the scent of war. Wanted to be home. He settled with eating the meals Francis made out of the daily rations. Settled with curling close to him on frightfully black nights like these.

Over by Christmas. Only a fool would hope such a thing this late in the game.

"What's for supper tomorrow?" Arthur asked instead, and turned his mind from the black. The black of the war. The black of the enemy. The black of the anxiety. Focussed instead on Francis. On his calm and soothing blue.

"Who knows?" the Frenchman breathed out, cigarette smoke puffing out with it. He curled closer to Arthur's side beneath the greatcoat, tucking his legs under himself, closing his eyes gently. "Tomorrow will come when it comes."

Owari


End file.
